


A Matter of Taste

by ysande



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5 + 1 Fic, Angst, Fluff, Food, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pre-OT3, bromance?, illya is a thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/pseuds/ysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Illya stole food from Napoleon.</p><p>And one time he didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Taste

1\. 

It's well after dinner time when Solo saunters in to the hotel room that Gaby shares with Illya. He appears entirely too pleased with himself to have been up to any good. There's an umbrella in one hand and a baguette wrapped in wax paper in the other. The man looks much more like he'd been on a picnic than he did someone who'd missed his rendezvous time by nearly four hours, Gaby thinks with exasperation. A quick glance at Illya's face shows that the Russian feels the same. Solo, though, is oblivious.

'I trust your evenings were as pleasant as mine?' he asks gallantly, very deliberately being obtuse to the frown that gathers at Gaby's brow and the thunderstorm brewing on Illya's. 

'Sorry I couldn't make it to dinner,' Solo continues blithely and infuriatingly. 'Mademoiselle Devauchelle offered me a feast I couldn't resist.'

Illya scowls at Solo and the world in general. Gaby doesn't blame him. When Solo is in one of these moods, he's insufferable.

'She was even kind enough to fix me up a little snack when we were done,' Solo continues, looking at his sandwich with frank appreciation. 'Which was fortuitous, because I am famished. There's nothing like vigorous exercise to stimulate the appetite.'

Solo has just begun to unwrap his baguette with relish when Illya stalks across the room and plucks the sandwich from his startled hands.

'Then you would agree, Cowboy, that I deserve this after an evening of scouring streets for your body?' Illya asks grimly. Not breaking eye contact with Solo, he takes a deliberate bite of the sandwich.

Solo just gapes at him. 'Did you just see -' He turns to Gaby in indignation. 'He just stole my baguette! We're meant to be on the same team!'

Illya doesn't quite smile, but something wicked sparkles in his eyes. 'We are,' he agrees. 'But I'm winning.'

2.

The window shatters with a crash and a spray of glass. Illya's head whips up and he growls something in Russian. Gaby gives a yelp of shock, but seconds later a gun is steady in her hands. Solo huffs in irritation and drains his tumbler of whiskey before drawing his own weapon. He catches their disbelieving looks.

'What?' he said. 'That was a thirty year old Laphroaig. Besides. They'll never hit anything.'

The three of them peer out into the twilight gloom. A car has pulled up in front of their lonely forest cabin, open-topped and occupied by five men. Gaby corrects herself. It's not just a car. It's a car that has been mounted with a machine gun, and they each notice at the same time. They dive for the floor as bullets explode through the front of the cabin as though it were made of paper.

'They'll never hit anything, you say,' Illya remarks dryly. He crouches by the ruins of a window frame and takes aim, almost carelessly. Outside, two men jerk and topple to the ground. Unfortunately, the others manning the mounted gun reply by sending another furious volley of bullets, coming so thick and fast that all Gaby can do is dive for the floor and hope that Illya and Solo have enough intelligence to follow.

They don't. Illya vanishes behind them, and Solo stands, returning fire until something hits him on the side of the head and he goes down in a sprawl. Gaby shouts and throws herself towards him.

Solo waves her back, blood streaming down the side of his face, but otherwise unharmed.

'I told you they'd never hit anything,' he declares - and then he blanches so suddenly that Gaby rushes forwards, scrabbling on her hands and knees under a rain of lead.

'What are you doing?' Solo gasps at Illya, completely unheeding of Gaby's frantic hands.

Illya has torn a strip from his shirt and soaked it in alcohol. For a wild moment, Gaby thinks it's for the gushing wound on Solo's head. But Illya makes no move towards the two of them; he tops up the bottle with dish soap and wedges the rag in with a cork. He doesn't look up from his work. 

'Is cocktail. Russian made.'

'That's a 1932 whiskey!' Solo exclaims, more distressed by the abuse of the bottle than by the blood that runs freely down his face and throat. 'Do you know what that's worth?'

'Three lives,' Illya retorts, unheeding of Solo's anguish. 'Get down.'

Gaby obeys instantly and drags Solo with her. Illya lights a match, lights the rag, and hurls the precious bottle out the broken window.

A moment later there's the faint sound of smashing glass - no boom of an explosion, which Gaby had expected - but there are panicked yells, three muffled bangs from Illya's gun and then a smothering silence as the storm of machine gun fire stills.

Only then does Illya turn to survey them both. 

'I could sure use that drink now,' grumbles Solo, the closest to ill-tempered Gaby's ever seen him. 

Illya just arches an eyebrow. 'Whiskey is no good to dead spy. Besides. Vodka is only true drink.'

3.

"What," Solo asks flatly, "do you think you're doing, Peril?"

Illya pauses long enough to raise a haughty brow. "Eating," he answers succinctly, and returns to demolishing the plate of ribs before him.

"I can see that," Solo replies impatiently, as though talking to a particularly small and dimwitted child. " _Why_ are you doing that, Peril?"

Illya glares at him. "Do Americans not know to eat when hungry?"

"Yes," Solo says testily. "But this food," he gestures to the kitchen piled high with both dishes and ingredients, "is not for you. It is for the Baron Franz Hess, as you know, who is particularly fond of Southern food, as you know, and who is our access point to the advanced radiation technology, _as you know_ , so can you please take your enormous Russian appetite somewhere else?"

Illya tilts his head, considering. Then, "No," he decides, and reaches for a piece of freshly baked cornbread.

Solo reaches across, lightning fast, and raps Illya's knuckles with the wooden spoon he's holding. Gaby holds her breath for a moment, unsure of the reaction to come. But Illya merely looks reproachful - and mischievous, Gaby notes with amusement.

"Do you have any idea," Solo begins, "how difficult it is to acquire smoked hickory chips in Austria? This literally nearly cost me an arm and a leg. I'm willing - barely - to risk that to prevent world annihilation, but not for your prodigious appetite, Peril."

"I thought we are on same team," Illya points out.

"Some days more than others, plainly," Solo sighs. "Can't you wait another hour for dinner, Peril? Or better yet, make your own dinner? You could even be a gentleman and cook for Gaby while I finish up here."

Gaby wrinkles her nose. "Thank you, but I'd rather go hungry in that case."

"I went for long jog," Illya said. "To set perimeter of location, for the safety of our team. Now I am hungry, so I eat." He looks utterly, completely innocent.

Gaby hides a smile behind her hand.

Solo gapes at Illya. " _That's_ what this is about?" he asks, incredulous. "Because I refused to help you set booby traps around the manor?"

"Was not just around manor," Illya says defensively. "This is very big estate. And not just 'booby traps'. Also surveillance. You are a terrible spy, Cowboy."

Solo actually groans out loud. "Peril, what will it take for you to cease devouring _all_ of our banquet for the Baron? Noting that it's just World War Three we're tasked with stopping here?"

"Pancakes," Illya answers so immediately that Gaby can't help bursting out into laughter. She raises her hands, half placating, half mocking, when he pins his attention on her. Solo stares at them both as though they've gone mad.

"You do make good pancakes, Solo," she grins.

"Terrible spy," Illya reiterates. "But not bad at making pancakes."

"Huh," says Napoleon, something impossibly warm and self-satisfied and _fond_ playing around the curve of his lips. "Pancakes. In exchange for a chance to save the world. Like the professional operatives that we are."

"With maple syrup," Illya specifies.

Napoleon laughs, then, bright and delighted, and there's no mistaking the fondness at all. "You've got a deal, Peril."

4.

The three of them are, in a rare moment, lazily content, relaxed in a manner that can only come with the sudden fading of adrenalin after weeks of pressure. Provence is delightfully warm and rustic, the air filled with the scent of the sea and ripe summer grains.

Gaby is draped over the the settee, her feet imperiously resting in Illya's lap. Illya himself has not deigned to notice the intrusion, but once, when he forgets himself, he closes one large hand over a small, brown foot with such fondness that Gaby buries her face in her book lest anyone see how much the gesture means to her.

Solo, ridiculously, is wearing an apron. It's very close to how he was dressed that first night Gaby met him, but right in this moment, he looks nothing like that worldly, world-weary spy. There's an ease to his movements, a lightness to his steps and a peacefulness in his eyes that makes him look suddenly very young.

The low table is covered in bottles, both empty and full, of French wine: merlot, and grenache, but also colombard and clairette and others Gaby can't remember. It's Solo's doing, of course - by now, they expect nothing less of their extravagant American partner. Gaby is tipsier than she'll ever admit to being, her limbs loose and faintly thrumming from the alcohol that heats her blood. Even Illya has joined them in the drinking, the glasses of wine and the soft dusk breeze conspiring to smooth the frown from his brow and tug a smile from his lips.

She thinks Napoleon is the drunkest of all, although he's also most skilled at hiding it.

'You promised to cook us dinner, lazybones,' she needles him. 'All we've had is bottle after bottle of wine.'

'Hm,' agrees Napoleon, looking down at the apron he's still wearing and appearing surprised to find it there. 'I went to the market this morning. Exquisite food. The fines olives I've ever seen.'

He saunters to the refrigerator and opens it with a flourish. A bemused frown clouds his face. 'It's empty,' he declares, all puzzled indignation.

Gaby laughs at him. 'Then you must not have gone to the market this morning.'

'I did!' protests Solo, and then looks accusingly at Illya. 'Did you eat my groceries, Peril?'

Illya shrugs, but there's no mistaking the mischief in his eyes. 'Perhaps. It did not have your name on it, Cowboy.'

Solo groans. 'You wound me, Peril. Don't tell me you ate it all? The olives? The goats cheese? The truffles??'

Illya makes a disgusted face. 'Yes. And it was not worth saving. Especially that goats cheese. It tasted like it was decomposing.'

Solo buries his face in his hands. 'You're going to be the death of me, Peril,' he groans. 'I could almost - almost! - forgive you if you'd at least had the refinement to enjoy them, but to eat all that and not even enjoy it...!'

Illya tilts his head, surveying Solo as though studying something new and fascinating. 'You are very strange man, Cowboy,' he says at last.

'I am a man of taste and elegance,' retorts Solo, but there's no heat in the words at all, only infinite amusement and fondness. 'But that still doesn't solve our problem of dinner for tonight.'

'This does!' Gaby plucks another bottle from the table, and raises her glass triumphantly.

Solo gives her a conspiratorial wink as he fills her glass to the brim. Illya - stoic, reserved Illya - steals it from her before her fingers can wrap around the stem, and drains it all without drawing breath. 

And Gaby laughs at them both, her heart lighter than she can ever remember it being.

5.

Illya's been gone four months. 

The richness of autmnn had withered to the bleakness of winter, and now brave and despicable shoots of green and new life were unfurling all around them. Gaby has been to Persia and Egypt, to the valleys of Afghanistan and the beaches of Australia. Often she goes with Solo; rarely with Waverly; even rarer still, alone. But they have not gone anywhere with Illya in four long months.

Waverly is typically inscrutable when asked, concealing beneath his affable and endearingly awkward manner everything from the plans for dinner to nuclear codes to the location of a particular KGB spy.

And therein lies the problem, Gaby thinks angrily. Seconded to U.N.C.L.E. Illya might be, but it is the KGB who owne him, who hold tight his leash and like to yank it just to make a point. U.N.C.L.E. is a collaborative effort, and Waverly is a very powerful man, but compromises still must be made for the sake of diplomatic relations, if nothing else. They are nothing but chess pieces, any of them, used and discarded at the whim of unseen and uncaring players. Gaby knows that she should be grateful that she is Waverly's property and only at the mercy of one master instead of two warring ones, but every time she glimpses a tall, blond figure in a crowd or catches the flash of Solo's too-bright smile, she's furious and terrified and not in the least able to be grateful.

Solo had brushed aside her concerns on the occasions she had given voice to them. 'Peril's a big boy, Gaby' - with an infuriating smirk -, and 'he's more of a danger to Russia than Russia is to him', but Gaby sees his manic gaiety, his reckless gambles and his haunted eyes, and knows he misses Illya just as much as she does.

They're dining with Waverly at his insistence at Sheekey's. Gaby pokes a fork at her fish pie, finding little appetite for what she had once declared to be the grandest meal she's ever tried. Solo, pointedly, has ordered a steak in an establishment that has specialised in seafood for nearly a century. Waverly had noticed, of course. Very little escapes him. Gaby thinks he looks a little crestfallen at this mutinous action of Solo's. It's entirely possible that he has chosen Sheekey's to cater to Solo's irrepressibly hedonistic tendencies and her love for the fish pie. It's also entirely possible that he's chosen it to subtly demonstrate how well he knows them all, how much of their lives are documented and controlled in paper files kept under his lock and key. Gaby is suddenly very tired.

'I want to go home,' she says suddenly, for all the world like she's still a child. She crumples up her napkin and pushes her plate away. 'Why are we meeting here, anyway? You don't have a project for us. I doubt it's for the pleasure of our company.'

Waverly looks surprised. 'Oh. Well. I can assure you, Gaby, that I am actually very fond of your company. And Mr Solo's, heaven forgive me. And of course, Mr Kurya-' 

But he never finishes his sentence, because Illya walks stiffly up to their table and sits rigidly down, and Gaby has eyes or ears for nothing else and she flings her arms around him in careless abandon. 

'Illya! Illya, I thought -'

She's cut off as he woodenly sets her aside, his eyes never meeting hers. A waiter brings him a bowl of soup - so Waverly has been expecting him all along, of course he has - and Illya is scraping the bottom in two seconds flat. He eyes Solo's plate, and gestures gruffly at it. 'Are you eating still?' He doesn't wait for Solo to answer before he claims it and demolishes it almost as quickly. 

Gaby stares at him. At the gauntness of his face, the looseness of his coat. His shoulders are hunched and there are bruises, old bruises and new ones, along the his cheekbones and on his jaw and an ugly, purple scar winds its way down from his chin to disappear beneath his shirt. His left hand is swathed in bandages, and his right hand trembles around his fork - not with rage and fire but cold, bone-deep exhaustion and defeat.

Gaby meets Solo's eyes - Solo, who has a terrible, knowing expression - and together, they turn to Illya, to take him home.

\+ 1.

Gaby and Solo share a tiny, two bedroom flat in London's West End, and Waverly has his driver drop the three of them off there. 

Illya heads straight for the bathroom. Solo's eyebrow quirks, just a fraction, as though he had intended a joke but thought the better of it. The sound of old, rattling pipes groaning is followed by the patter of the shower being turned on full blast. Gaby can hear the sound of retching over the cascade of water, and, long moments later, the sound of the toilet being flushed.

Illya stays in the shower long enough for water to turn from scalding to lukewarm and finally to ice cold. He emerges with blue lips and Solo's towel around his waist. There are bruises, some yellowing, others dark and new, across his torso. There are burn marks on his wrists and cuts across his back. Gaby can see the stark lines of his ribs. 

"They really did a number on you, Peril," Solo says at last. His tone is light, but they can all hear the sorrow behind it. 

"Yes," Illya replies. "But they are dead, and I am not." Gaby can't tell whether Illya thinks this is a good thing or not.

Illya has no luggage with him, no clothes but for the blood and travel stained ones currently discarded on the bathroom floor. Solo loans him a pair of soft flannel pants and a long sleeved shirt, both slightly too short. And then Illya limps wordlessly into the nearest bedroom - Gaby's, by chance - and lays down on the bed and closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

Gaby takes Solo's room. Solo gallantly takes the sofa.

For the first day, Illya does very little but sleep. Gaby coaxes him into drinking a little water, but he will take nothing more than that.

In the days that follow, Solo, outwardly as flamboyant as ever, cooks up enough food to feed the entire Soho district. He makes risotto and new bread and dumplings; he serves up raw fish on sour rice, and clam linguine and bone broth. Illya's response is always the same - a furrowing of his brow and a polite, firm, "No. Thank you." The lines of his jaw and his collarbones sharpen.

One particularly cold night, Solo makes _solyanka_ , a hearty, spicy-sour Russian soup. Gaby wrinkles her nose at the smell, but Illya turns green and barely makes it to the bathroom before he's throwing up water and bile, all that he has left inside him.

"This can't go on, Peril," says Solo, smoothing back Illya's hair. Unless you knew Solo well, you would never see how gentle his hands and voice could be.

"Let us help you," says Gaby, and she is not gentle; she is angry and afraid.

Illya shakes his head tiredly. "There is no solution. Only time, to see if weakness will pass." His tone makes it clear that he's talking about the weakness of his spirit, and not of his body. "If pass, problem solved. If not pass, solve problem."

"You're not a 'problem' to be solved," Gaby tells him fiercely. "You are a man. You are our - our _partner_."

Illya looks up at them both, lost. "I am required to be more," he says, and the resignation in his voice sends a curl of fear through Gaby's stomach.

Solo scoops up Illya, half carrying him back to his room, the failed dinner completely forgotten. He pulls the blankets up to Illya's chin, and frowns when Illya cannot stop shivering. His eyes meet Gaby's. She pauses for a moment, but then she's stripping off her dress and stockings and crawling in beneath the sheets next to Illya. It's like lying next to an ice sculpture - all smooth, hard planes and the kind of cold that seeps into her bones. Gaby shudders.

The bed dips and Solo joins them, his front to Illya's cold back, his arms protectively around Illya's trembling shoulders.

"We love you exactly as you are, Peril," Solo says softy. 

"You're ours," growls Gaby, tucking one of Illya's big hands beneath her chin and trapping it there. "And if you have a problem, we will fix it, together. If you are hurt, we will mend it. If you are sad, we are right beside you. But _you_ are not ever the problem, understood?'

Illya is quiet for a very long time. But finally, "understood", he murmurs, and allows them to draw him close.

The next morning, Solo makes thick, fluffy buckwheat pancakes, dripping with butter and maple syrup. Illya watches him cook with more interest than he's shown since he returned. Solo plates up three golden stacks, and lifts a mouthful to Illya's lips.

"Eat, Peril," he says. "We've got a world to save, so that we can begin to explore it."

Illya does.

**Author's Note:**

> Things I love about Illya include:
> 
> -his smirk when he mocks Napoleon about his balls being on a very long leash held by a very short man;
> 
> \- the way he tells Gaby "congratulations" upon presenting her with her engagement ring;
> 
> \- that ridiculously self-satisfied and 'I'm the champion of BS' look he has when he's faking knowledge about the steps in Rome;
> 
> \- his expression at 'pfft - loving *your* work, Cowboy'
> 
> Illya isn't just a ball of Russian anger management issues and cold KGB spy - he's actually a bona fide shit-stirrer and he loves every second of it!
> 
> (Also - this was meant to be the fic that the incredibly lovely and talented PerilousCowboy prompted me on, which was 'bromance', but it ended up being less bromance and more pre-OT3. Will do better next time!)
> 
> Aaand it ended with Illya-angst because apparently I can't not.


End file.
